mixing refuse of the heart with words of truth for sprinkling on seeds of hope

Category Archives: writing

I want to be more like Zephyr who curls up in a ball wherever she pleases. Waits patiently by the door to be let out. Speaks up when she is hungry or thirsty. Trusts that her needs will be met.

Zephyr lives in the now. When she is tired, she rests. When she is thirsty she drinks. When she wants to stir things up, she trolls through the house in search of the other animals who share the space.

Zephyr doesn’t ask, she tells. She lets you know exactly what is what in no uncertain terms. Then she curls up again and claims her current space. All of the spaces are hers. She just lets us borrow them.

I want to claim my space in the midst of the many unknowns. To Zephyr the unknown is why all of the humans are now constantly invading her territory. She is having to make adjustments. Work around us.

We are all having to adjust to unknowns. Work around things. Find our new spaces.

This adjusting is difficult. None of us is where we were a week ago. We don’t know what it will look like a week from now. We have only now. I am tired.

There is such a thing as being in seclusion with too many options, too many choices, too much crowding, too many voices. I use Zephyr’s strategy and curl up to rest, rise up to drink some water, and then reengage in a new space.

Refreshed, I stretch and settle in for a little more work before calling this day and moving on to the next part which is the evening.

Christmas 2019 has come and gone, and no Christmas cards were sent. Plenty were received, and if you are one who generously kept me on your Christmas card list, thank you. It was noticed and appreciated.

This year I needed permission to not send cards. A time of much transition, it was kinder to remove the pressure and expectation. Thank you for understanding!

There were no major family events this year. No weddings, graduations, or career changes.

Like any newborn, it took time and energy away from other things, namely, writing on the blog. For those who continued to read faithfully and also noticed this, thank you.

The question of whether I have been writing is asked of me in private, and truth is, I have. I have been doing a lot of writing. Each time I respond to an email or send a letter, it’s writing. Each story I work on for personal therapy is writing. Each blog post I write for business is writing. Each story I post in my private writing group is writing.

It just has been quieter here.

I hope to be more consistent in this space in 2020. When I show up here, I love it. I love all of you who read and spur me on to keep writing. I love what Composting the Heart has been for me and hope to share more on it in 2020.

First will be my word of the year on January 1, so stay tuned!

As an added bonus for reading this far, here is a picture of Christmas Dinner festivities. We are wearing the crowns from our poppers! This is real life in our home. I am grateful!

It’s hard to be mindful on a Monday, that day of all days beginning the work week. No one enjoys rising early ~ at least I don’t~ and Monday is my early day. I pay for lack of preparedness by the scramble.

Most Mondays are filled up with activity. Work. school drop-off and pick-up, appointments, errands, choir, the day rolls from activity to activity, my mind racing ahead from one moment to the next.

Settling into work at my studio after getting everyone situated at school, I’m thwarted by a laptop that didn’t make it into the work bag and settle in to an hour of tasks that don’t require technology before leaving to finish those at my dining room table.

My unexpected return home disrupts the dog, who now needs his walk. There are library books to return, so I leash him, stuffing dog waste bags into my cardigan pocket.

I leave the phone behind intentionally, stepping out into the brilliant blue of fall. Can I inhabit this moment without rushing it? That is my question.

Focusing on the crunch of leaves underfoot and the sound of heavy machinery working on downtown construction finds me able to answer, Yes! Yes, I can!

I soar in the moment before being jerked to a halt by a dog bracing himself to do his business ~ very conspicously~ on a downtown sidewalk.

Sometimes inhabiting the moment literally stinks.

Balancing the library book bag on my shoulder, removing a cluster of green bags from sweater pocket and clumsily trying to tear off just one, squatting down to pick up the mess while holding the leash securely finds me wobbling in my ankle boots.

Looking back over my shoulder at the elderly man in his car, parked facing the sidewalk with driver’s side window down, I laugh, I hope you are enjoying this free morning show! We smile at each other as I stand and tie off the green bag. He nods. I continue walking towards the library to deposit the books.

Heading home, I reel my mind back from its frantic race ahead. There is still time left in the brilliant blue as I walk in the present.

My fitness tracker notes a pace that is slow, refusing to close its exercise ring as quickly as I would like.

I return home with an hour to spend before moving into the appointments, errands, school pick-up, choir, and evening family management part of the day. I anchor to a spot at the dining room table, open my laptop, and work.

The moments move on, and I choose to engage them with curiosity. When I am being mindful I am like a blank page hoping to be filled with words as I wait for an appointment to end.

My mind wanders while I walk the dog. Eloquent words string together in my head. There is so much to say, I just need time to gather the thoughts.

Swirling ideas settle with each step taken. I land in the present, the clicking of dog toes on the sidewalk as anchor. Clickety-clickety-clickety. Dewey knows only present, and presently we are walking.

I learn more of my fall routine each day, having not yet claimed it fully. Maybe by actual fall I will know.

One thing at a time. Day by day. Step by step. Clickety-clickety-clickety. Only the present. Presently I sit on my friend’s porch writing.

The rhythm of days and weeks comes into focus. Walking the dog. Writing on the porch. Setting intentions. Following through.

I fight for words on this blog, in this space. There are other places I write, but this is my first love. My fingers strike the keyboard. Clickety-clickety-clickety. My rhythm is not as steady as the dog’s toes on the sidewalk. I press on.

I think to the tiny leaf on the sidewalk interrupting my morning walk. Seizing the moment I stop the dog and snap it, hoping for inspiration, trusting it to come.

I feel nothing profound. No wise words on change or seasons or fall schedules, only the ambiguity of not knowing.

And it’s okay. It has to be. In this moment it is okay for me not to know the final schedule, the outcome. I just need to be present to the clickety-clickety-clickety of now and anchor into the moment I have been given here on the porch.

Black-eyed Susans, Coneflowers, and Lamb’s ears compete for space among the unwanted invaders. Climbing the steps to the porch, I succumb to feelings of hopelessness. Why bother?

Remind me next summer when I think hanging baskets are a good idea, that they are really not. I tell my husband and my youngest daughter. I know one of them will remember. The porch is not my happy place right now. Dry hanging baskets only accentuate that fact.

No longer the flower lady, I am the lady with the overgrown house on the corner. Everything feels a mess, both inside and out, reminding me that when one area flourishes, another often suffers. This year it is the landscaping. The gardens. The unfinished porch.

Still the flowers fight forward. They open and bloom and stand their ground. One day I decide to set a fifteen minute timer in twilight’s glow and pull weeds. A stunning before and after rewards my effort. Never mind the thistles and thorns lurking around the corner.

An oval platter perches in the drainer, precariously balanced. I notice the carefully arranged pile of clean dishes, resting just so by the one who managed to fit every washed and rinsed piece together like a tower of Jenga blocks.

I lean over the pile to open the cupboard above, the one that holds medicines, vitamins, and the thermometer. My arm bumps the platter which loses its balance on the top of the stack and crashes to the floor, breaking into pieces.

The noise itself is enough to evoke strong response. A child stands near, waiting for me to retrieve cold medicine. I swallow back words rising to the surface, past my chest, into my throat, longing to escape my lips in a fury of noise.

Stand back. A dish just broke. Are you hurt? Watch out for the pieces.

I take care of the medicine and send her upstairs to get ready for bed as I gather the shatter.

I have two other identical platters, left over from days when I was snatching replacements up on Ebay. I am not sad that it is broken as much as I am annoyed that I have to clean the mess.

I want to blame someone for this, for the fact that something fell unexpectedly and broke, even though it was the result of imbalance and gravity. I turn on myself in a familiar pattern. I could have emptied the tower of dishes from the drainer before reaching over to get cold medicine for a child. Does it matter?

There is no fault.

It’s not about the falling or breaking or blaming. It is about what stirs inside. Always the stirring.

Splintered

Going backwards to find myselfPicking up the piecesFragments like the broken platter on the kitchen floor.

The large shards are easy to see, to gatherI collect them in a stack and set them aside to glue laterWhere are the splinters?

Those are the bits that will surprise out of nowhereIn the middle of the nightSeemingly invisible, yet sharpPiercingUnseen by the eye but felt by the skin when inadvertently stepped upon

I trust a well-placed light to illumine the spaceRevealing the slivers before they can harmI’m finding the pieces to put back together

But should one go missing and enter the skinA light can illumine the bit of the edgeTo pull out with tweezers before it goes deep

Large parts of the storycollected in filesIn my mind, in my journals, in my heartThey are gathered, assembled While the splinters remain scatteredWaiting their turn to be collected, tooJust in a different wayOften piercing under the skinSurfacingSeen by the light of loveTended by kindessTo be put back togetherRevealing a brand new purpose.